


Wash It All Away

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post Reichenbach, bittersweet and silent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:25:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the fall, and before his departure, Molly and Sherlock caring for one another as best as they can.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wash It All Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [houndingsherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/houndingsherlock/gifts).



> Inspired by our love for Molly, this fic is my gift to Anna for her birthday!

Molly slowly unbuckled her belt, unzipped her flies, and pushed blood spattered jeans down her thighs. Shivering, she unbuttoned her cardigan. Tugged her shirt over her head. Let her hair down. With a towel draped around her shoulders, she coaxed Sherlock from his bloody clothes. His eyes were empty, hair matted to the slope of his temple. Breathing deep and quiet against the hiss of water.

Toes curled into the plush floor mat. She rubbed her palms over Sherlock’s pale forearms, shoulders (bruised from the fall), chest, neck. He moved with an uncharacteristic sluggishness. Fingers weakly scrabbling at his flies. Molly cupped his jaw in one hand. Self-consciously itched the back of her calf with her bare (freezing) toes. Sherlock leaned against her. Minutely. Desperately. Shucked his trousers, shirt, pants. Shedding. Shedding. Shedding. Attempted to run a hand through his hair. Tangled in the drying blood.

She unfurled the towel from her shoulders — Sherlock’s eyes followed the movement but had yet to meet her face — to cover his head. Hooded. Veiled. His eyes were bright in the shadow. Eyelashes fluttered. Reaching behind her back, Molly unclasped her bra. Stepped out of her pants. Wrapped her arms around her waist and tugged Sherlock into the shower with her. She heard the towel slump to the floor before he returned it to the hook on the wall.

Inhaling the damp, steamy air, Molly flattened her hand along the swell of Sherlock’s rib cage. Toes squeaking on the cheap vinyl, he tipped forward to duck beneath the spray of hot water. Molly slipped an arm around him (the best she could in the confined space with Sherlock’s joints in the way) for the shampoo. She remembered his preferences. She bought duplicates of his toiletries for her flat (he scoffed and bought her dinner every time). Clutching the bottle to her chest, water falling over her shoulders, she realized she would have to bin his things once he left.

Hands smoothed her soaking hair away from her face. Dropped back to his sides. Stepping back, Molly pulled Sherlock with her. Directly under the steady spray. Bloody curls lay flat against his forehead, cheek, ears. Setting the bottle aside — balanced on the edge of the tub — she pressed her fingertips to the matted knots near his temple. Rivulets of rosy water streaked down her arms. Dripped to pool at their feet. Her hands curled around his ears, gently working out the residual pint and a bit extra of his own blood from his scalp. Sherlock reached for the shampoo.

Molly dragged her fingers through his hair and held out cupped hands. Sherlock filled his palm, pricey shampoo slopping between his fingers. Upended the bottle a second time to fill Molly’s hands. Eyes darting across her face, Sherlock rubbed the soap into her scalp. With a weak smile she rubbed her hands together and scrubbed at his hairline. Through the haphazard part along the crown of his skull. Tugged at the long curls at the nape of his neck. His mouth quirked and Molly felt something in the pit of her stomach uncurl.

He exhaled heavily. It rumbled into a chuckle as he swept her hair into a sudsy bundle. They matched with soft, white foam between their fingers (arms caging each other beneath the water cooling unhurriedly) and sad smiles on their lips. Sherlock released her hair with one hand. Tendrils slapped against her collarbone. He kissed the skin of her throat. The valley between her breasts. Molly pushed his curls away from his eyes, shampoo sliding down his back. Fingers gripping the soft flesh of her hips, Sherlock inched Molly forward into the dwindling warm water. Cupping her hands over her eyebrows, she tipped her head back.

A thumb dragged along her throat. Froze at her suprasternal notch, fingers splayed across her chest (across her left shoulder, digging into the joint as if he were surprised to find something missing). Squeezing the water from her hair, she winced as diluted shampoo dripped into her eye. Sherlock wiped his hands on his stomach. Brushed shampoo from Molly’s eyelashes. Kissed the corner of her eye.

Molly opened her mouth to ask him to close his eyes. Her voice clicked against the back of her throat. Sherlock seemed to understand regardless. His fingers mirrored hers, shielding his eyes from water still dripping down the bridge of his nose (flushed from the heat). Rested his head against her shoulder. Sighed into the delicate skin of her neck. Kneading into the tense muscles of his neck, scrubbing out the shampoo — knots in his hair untangled and soft — with gentle persuasion, Molly let her hands fall to his back. Traced the ridge of his prominent shoulder blades.

With one last kiss to the shell of his ear, Molly combed her fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He rose to wipe his eyes and she finally saw (she always noticed but knew herself that she rarely observed) the set of his lips, the sharpness of his cheekbones. Sherlock curled an arm around her waist. Wet skin of their stomachs warm and soft. He turned off the shower. Reached for the towel. Draped it over her like a hood. Molly drew her arms to her chest as Sherlock dried her hair. Her arms. Wrapped the soft towel beneath her armpits. She tucked the loose ends together, secured over her heart, and pulled Sherlock to her. Cold streams of water dripped from his hair. Trailing over her collarbones.

Blindly reaching behind her for the curtain, she wound her fingers around the edge of the second towel. Mirrored Sherlock as she dried his hair. His long neck. Bruised shoulders and concave stomach. Wrapped the towel around his waist. Cheek pressed to his chest, she felt his chest rise (heard his lungs expand). Pause. Hum as he swallowed his voice.


End file.
